


The Donor

by Wetislandinthenorthatlantic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Molly, F/M, Mollcroft, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Feels, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-01-04 02:39:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12159861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic/pseuds/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic
Summary: Molly Hooper wants a baby but has given up on relationships. She needs a sperm donor and Sherlock has turned her down. Mycroft offers to help.





	1. In 221B Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Obotligtnyfiken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obotligtnyfiken/gifts), [thINKture](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thINKture/gifts).



> A huge thanks goes out @thinkture for the beta a long, long time ago and to @obotligtnyfiken for the beta now. You two ROCK!

As Mycroft climbed the stairs to Sherlock's flat, he could hear his little brother's strident tones admonishing someone so strongly the whole tirade could be heard through the closed door.

"No. No. No. Absolutely not. I have no interest, and I think this is a blindingly bad idea."

Given his tone of voice, Mycroft was almost positive Sherlock and John were having one of their infamous rows. He paused briefly on the landing allowing time for John to retort, more curious as to what this discussion was about than interrupting it – for the time being.

After a few moments of silence, his hand closed around the familiar knob and opened the door. 

In his mind’s eye, John was in his chair having a face-off with Sherlock opposite. Most likely a glossy brochure of a new local nursery for Rosie lay crumpled up on the floor between them. 

Instead, opening the door revealed a third person in the flat. A small woman was perched on the edge of the sofa with her arms crossed; her whole body language screamed defiance, including an icy stare and clenched jaw directed towards his little brother -- Molly.

None of the three bothered to acknowledge the oldest Holmes entering the flat. 

Swallowing the annoyance of his incorrect conclusion, and the shock of discovering Molly taking the brunt of Sherlock’s outburst, Mycroft quickly schooled his expression back to neutral before moving smoothly through the flat towards the kitchen. Quickly taking up an auspicious vantage point, leaning up against the sink with his arms folded, Mycroft let his gaze sweep slowly across the room. 

Sherlock’s beloved chair had been turned to face the couch. Presumably making easier for him to return Molly’s defiant cold stare.The teapot sat on the coffee table, two different shades of drips littering the papers underneath it told Mycroft the cups had been refilled at least twice.   A box of Sherlock’s favourite biscuits lay open on the coffee table — obviously brought by Molly as a ploy to get on Sherlock’s good side.  ‘This serious conversation has been going on for a while,’ deduced Mycroft silently. 

Next to Molly sat John, significantly more relaxed than the other two in this conflict but clearly concerned.  His arm was along the back of the sofa; a pensive look on his face.

"Molly. This is a huge life-changing decision. Are you really sure?"

John’s eyes were flicking between Sherlock and Molly. 

“Neither of you is going to change my mind,” responded Molly firmly.

“Of course the choice is yours, Molly,” countered John gently. “But you need to understand, whatever happens, your life will never be the same.”

Mycroft’s left eyebrow arched – he couldn't help himself. 

With one final scowl at the detective, Molly got up off the couch, gathered her bag, slipped on her coat and left without saying a word.  None of the men moved until they heard Molly’s footsteps on the stairs fade and the front door slam.

“Sorry, brother dear. I didn’t mean to interrupt your domestic,” smirked Mycroft as he flicked the electric kettle on before taking a china cup and saucer out of the cupboard.

His brother shot him a look filled with hate before getting up and storming across the flat into his  bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Letting out a deep sigh, John got up off the sofa and walked into the kitchen, taking out a mug he placed it next to Mycroft’s cup on the counter. Pointedly tossing a tea bag into each cup he let out a long sigh. 

“What was all that about?” Mycroft enquired.  John now stood beside him, looking very stressed.

“Don’t even go there Mycroft,” said John as he shook his head.


	2. Mrs. Hudson’s Party

As his car pulled up outside 221B Baker Street for the second time in a week, Mycroft let out a deep sigh. He must have had a good reason to accept the invitation to Mrs. Hudson’s birthday party, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember was it was.

It would be easy to feign state business, send his driver in with apologies and the gift sitting in his boot. But that would mean missing out on the plate of scrumptious lemon tarts waiting for him. The small yellow disks were always the perfect balance of tart and sweet, the silky texture encased in flaky pastry. Mycroft swallowed the excess saliva now gathering in his mouth.  Years of asking and he was still empty handed; Mrs. Hudson flat out refused to divulge either the recipe or the shop where she purchased them. His hand reached down and clicked open the seat belt latch.

Damn his sweet tooth.  

Mrs. Hudson’s tidy flat was filled with exactly the people Mycroft expected to find: John, Sherlock, Molly, and Greg. Rosie was sitting on Molly’s lap while John, recounting a humorous event from yesterday’s surgery, had everyone— even Sherlock-- enthralled.

“Happy birthday Mrs. Hudson.” Handing the small but expensive bouquet of flowers to a beaming Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft tried to keep his eyes from wandering around the room searching for the tarts.

“Oh! Aren’t they divine? Thank you, dear. So lovely you could come. I’ve saved you a plate of my lemon tarts— won’t be a tick.”

Inwardly Mycroft cheered as he watched Mrs. Hudson disappear into her kitchen with the flowers. A whole plate of tarts more than made up for having to endure small talk for 45 minutes on a Sunday afternoon. Soon Sherlock’s landlady was back with a china plate containing three perfectly round pastries.

Taking the small plate, Mycroft uttered his thanks quickly and perhaps a bit too loudly in hopes of covering up the noises his stomach was already making.

“You weren’t here for the big news!” Mrs. Hudson was smiling broadly as she ushered Mycroft over to the sofa gesturing for him to take the seat next to Greg.

“Molly’s going to have a baby! Isn’t that lovely? Babies are just lovely. It will be so nice to have a baby around the house again,” Mrs. Hudson had a wistful look on her face as she reached out and took Rosie from Molly, settling down with the little girl in her favourite chair.

“And you will have a little playmate! Just think of all the mischief you will get up to. Sherlock, with two little ones running around you really will need to get a second fridge for your experiments,” mused Mrs. Hudson as she smoothed down Rosie's blond curls.  

The lemon tart heading towards Mycroft’s mouth crumbled onto the plate. Luckily it hadn’t made it into his mouth, or he would have choked on it. Shooting a stern look towards his brother Mycroft picked up the larger piece of tart and popped it into his mouth taking a moment to savour the taste in his mouth--  and the tension in the room. 

As the delicious lemony flavour melted on his tongue the conversation he stumbled into last week suddenly made sense. He made a mental note to give the head of Sherlock’s security team a moderate scolding. 

After the incident at Sherringford, and John and Rosie moving into 221B, the number of nights Sherlock now used Molly’s flat as a refuge had increased exponentially. It was hardly surprising the security team had missed this, but still— finding out he was going to be an Uncle from his brother’s landlady— was completely unacceptable. He would have a word with his brother as well. The lack of basic manners Sherlock had shown him was bordering on absurd. 

After swallowing the tart, with still no eye contact from Sherlock, Mycroft’s gaze moved to Molly, seated in the armchair next to the sofa.

“My congratulations Molly,” Mycroft tried to make his smile sincere. After all,  she was carrying his niece or nephew. 

“Oh. OH. No, no, no. I’m not pregnant. Not yet anyway,” Molly blushed, clearly embarrassed. Her fingers nervously traced the edges of Rosie’s thick board book that she still held in her hands. 

Mycroft turned his head towards Sherlock looking for an explanation. Sherlock was defiantly ignoring the conversation. His focus was across the room on Rosie, her chubby hands trying to maneuver smooth, bright wooden blocks into a shape sorter.

“Just before you got here Molly told everyone she has decided she wants to have a baby and she will be using a sperm donor,” explained John in his best calm and reassuring doctor voice from the seat next to Sherlock.

“The London Sperm Bank comes highly recommended. My friend used it last year. Her son was born two months ago.” Molly was twirling her hair absentmindedly obviously slightly uncomfortable with the look she was now getting from Sherlock.  

“No offers from — friends?” Mycroft’s gaze returned to Molly, making a point not to look at either Sherlock or John.

Molly shook her head, and once again her eyes fell to the floor. “No. No offers from friends.”

The brief silence was broken as, “I’ll do it.” came from both Greg and Mycroft in unison.


	3. Greg vs. Mycroft

The only sound in 221A Baker Street came from Rosie babbling happily away to herself at Mrs. Hudson’s feet.

After the offer from Greg and Mycroft, it felt like time stood still and waited for Molly’s brain to catch up with this new reality.

Two minutes ago there had been a plan. The brochure with photos of happy babies and even happier parents had been read. The reviews had been scrutinised. Her decision was clear, and her mind made up. For heaven’s sake, the application form is on the side in the kitchen -- all it needed was a signature.

And now, sitting on the couch in Mrs. Hudson’s front room sat two potential sperm donors.

‘When it rains it pours.” Spoken just this side of a whisper the sarcastic comment cut through the tension in the room.  “Oh! I’m so sorry! That just slipped out!” Mrs. Hudson’s hands flew up to her mouth, a nervous smile on her face.

“Oh. Umm,” confusion, similar to being offered two equally lovely desserts made Molly’s head feel fuzzy as she stared at the men sitting on the couch.  

“I-I- I don’t know what to say.”

Molly's gaze settled on the small settee. Greg was eagerly sitting forward, his elbows on his knees his hands clasped in front of him. Next, to him, Mycroft’s long legs were crossed, and Mrs. Hudson’s china plate was expertly balanced on one knee. The two males in this unexpected procreation battle were quietly eyeing each other up 

“What the hell are you playing at Mycroft,” Sherlock leapt from his seat and shouted at his brother across the room, ignoring the cries about his language from John rushing to comfort a startled Rosie who had burst into tears

“Brother dear, just because I have no wish for a child doesn’t mean that I won’t come to the aid of someone that does.” Mycroft’s look towards Molly was confident and reassuring.  

“Since when do you care about helping anyone?” Sherlock was pacing around the small room, making it feel even smaller. 

“Must be middle age, Sherlock. Softening my edges.”

Hands on his hips, Sherlock’s eyes sent daggers over to Mycroft. Molly saw the glare easily deflected by the older brother. 

Taking a deep breath, Greg relaxed and sat back on the couch. When his eyes met Molly’s a toothy smile crossed his face — his confidence growing as the brothers bickered. 

“I remember when Karen was pregnant with our kids— loved every minute of it. Being a parent is bloody hard work – but it’s the best job in the world,” Taking a sip, Greg smiled from behind his cup of tea. 

“This is just so unexpected,” Molly shifted uncomfortably. “Thank you, both for your offers. They are really kind. It’s just— Greg I can’t take you up on yours.”

Greg’s face fell. 

‘I’m sorry, but— you already have children.”

“So?” questioned Greg with a confused smile.

“My aunt married a man with kids. When she had her first baby her husband took one look a the baby, gave her a necklace and went to play golf."

“Ah. I get it. It will seem like old hat to me-- even if I wouldn’t be there day to day. Plus I’ve got my other two to worry about – it could get messy-- very messy. Especially when Rachel wants to babysit.”  Greg let out a deep dejected sigh, a forced smile settling on his face.  

Molly stood up and moved toward Greg, which caused both men sitting on the couch to stand up instantly. 

Putting his arms around Molly in a bear hug Greg kissed her her head. “You’ll be a great mum. Save me an Uncle-ship.”

“Absolutely,” Molly smiled up at him.

“Congrats Mate. Looks like you’re up.” Having let go of Molly, Greg stuck out his hand which Mycroft shook with a slightly shocked look on his face as Greg clapped him on his back.

“Still. If you change your mind Mols – you know where to find me.” Greg gave Molly a wink as he moved to the other side of the room reaching out to take Rosie from John.

“Mycroft--are you serious?  You would do this for me?” Standing in front of Mycroft, close enough to smell the tangy lemon of Mrs. Hudson’s tarts, it was difficult to believe what had just been offered. 

“I am rarely not serious.Come to my office tomorrow at 2 pm.” Mycroft reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a thick cream coloured card that simply had an address on it and handed it to Molly. “In case you have forgotten. Now. if you will excuse me, I have some matters that need attending to.” Mycroft gave Molly a small smile, and in the blink of an eye he had thanked Mrs. Hudson and was gone. 

Sitting frozen in Mrs. Hudson’s favourite floral armchair Sherlock was pale and shaking. 

“You can not be seriously thinking about taking my brother up on his offer.” The hoarse words were barely above a whisper.

Playing with Mycroft’s card absentmindedly while deep in thought, Molly had to bite back a smile before she could reply. “Yes, actually I am.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels good to be back! That's all for now kids ... but I hope to post more very soon!


	4. Meeting In Mycroft's Office

Molly glanced around Mycroft's office. How long had it been since she was last here-- months? Years? It looked like nothing had changed. Not even the three perfectly aligned pens on his desk seemed to have moved. Without wasting any time Mycroft began. 

“You wish to become a mother.” It was both a statement and a question.

“Yes. I do.” Butterflies fluttered gently in Molly’s stomach, bringing to mind trips to the headmaster's office decades ago.

“Since yesterday, I have given my offer of help great thought.”

In an instant, the butterflies vanished replaced with a tight knot as Molly filled with dread. _He’s changed his mind. He’s come to his senses._ Keeping disappointment off her face was difficult.  Mycroft's expression stilled and grew serious.

“I am prepared to provide you with the necessary genetic material for you to conceive a child, and should you find yourself wishing more children in the future, I am prepared to provide siblings.”

Unconsciously Molly’s mouth dropped opened, too startled to utter a word.

“Molly. I know you asked Sherlock to be the father of your child and he turned down your request.”

Biting her bottom lip, Molly looked away.

“After all you have done for him— for me—helping to save him countless times over the years—," Mycroft's words were distant and distracted as if he was flicking through memories.  "Providing you genetic material that is a 98-percent match to what you want is the least I can do for you.”

“Thank you,” replied Molly softly with a faint smile daring to appear on her face. "I never expected to be repaid for helping Sherlock all those times. He's my friend."

“The drive for procreation is part of human nature." Mycroft shrugged his shoulders.  "You wish to have a child, but you can’t do it on your own. I have no deep desire to reproduce, but that does not mean that I am not willing or able to help someone else achieve this goal. And perhaps the brother of your first choice is more appealing than the generic bio that accompanies an anonymous vial of frozen ejaculate.” He delivered these words tentatively as if testing this idea.

A quiet bemused snort escaped from Molly as she nodded.

“I also have every intention to support any children I sire, including financing all education.” Mycroft’s gaze was serious again.

“Oh Mycroft-- you don’t have to--.” Mycroft held up his hands and shook his head to stop Molly's protest. 

“Of course I don’t have to, I wish to. I can not think of a better way to spend my money.”

Molly hesitated, the words not forming in her mouth, unsure how to broach the next obvious subject.  

“And what do I want in return? That is your next question isn’t it?” Amusement flickered in Mycroft's eyes.

Molly nodded guiltily.

“Perhaps a photo now and then. I have no time in my life for children.  I would make a horrible father, so I have no plans on even trying." Pausing, a hint of curiosity settled on Mycroft's face.  "But I do have one question.”

“Go on then,” Molly swallowed hard, lifted her chin and boldly met his gaze, terrified as to what the British Government could ask her that he didn't already know.

“You are an attractive and intelligent woman. Why not wait until the right man comes along?” Mycroft’s face became studious. He leaned back and steepled his fingers under his chin. 

“I can't seem to make any relationship work.” 

“Molly, I'm not going to ask you to list your defeats, but there certainly must be plenty of eligible bachelors still available in the kingdom.” 

Molly bent her head and studied her hands for a few moments before raising her eyes and capturing his. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” Shrugging his shoulders Mycroft's face indicated he was surprised his line of questioning had been interrupted. 

"After Sherlock's fall, you slept on my sofa for three weeks."

"I wanted to make sure you were completely safe. That we had missed nothing in our preparations or execution of the plan."

"And then the overnight stays abruptly ended."

"If you remember the situation in Greece began to flare up which needed my full attention. At the time we did talk about it. You said you understood. Why are you bringing this up now?" There was now an edge of irritation in Mycroft's voice.

"The day after you stopped sleeping on my couch you had an air conditioning unit installed in my flat."

Letting out an exasperated sigh Mycroft was clearly frustrated at having to explain himself. "Over the course of my stay, the amount of clothes you wore around the flat decreased-- which was completely unrelated to any meteorological event. It was clear for some reason your internal temperature was increasing. Hence the air conditioning unit — to make you more comfortable. I was doing you a favour. What does this have to do with anything?" 

Silently, with a tight smile on her face, Molly held Mycroft's gaze and flicked an eyebrow at him.

"Oh my god," whispered the genius as the opportunity he had missed years ago hit him.  " My apologies Molly. It never even occurred to me--"

“When the most observant can't pick up on my hints I don't have a chance with the rest of the males in this world. I'm not looking for a man anymore Mycroft, just a baby.”

Mycroft shook his head and gently huffed in defeat, "Touché."

“Do you want me to sign something?” asked Molly breaking the silence.

“No. I have no fear that you will suddenly go after me. If you need it, you can have it. I am a gentleman, and I have no intention of going back on my word.”

"Okay. It's a deal then." Molly felt a warm glow flow through her. 

"Please alert Anthea when a-- donation-- is required. I will have it couriered over to your flat. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare for my next meeting." 

“Yes. Of course. Thank you so much, Mycroft.” Molly could feel her eyes beginning to swim as she stood up.

 “It’s my pleasure Molly," holding the door open for her Mycroft gave a small bow in Molly’s direction.  "I look forward to when I next see you— pushing a pram.”

 


	5. The Fourth Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in early September.

 

There was a soft knock on Molly's front door. Although she had been expecting it, the sound still startled her. Since finishing dinner, Molly had been watching mindless telly, trying her best to keep her mind off what she was about to do-- again.

The chances she would get pregnant after only one try was low- _ she knew this _ . But as the months had passed it was difficult to know what was worse: the disappointment of not getting pregnant or the embarrassment of having to text Anthea to schedule Mycroft for another donation.

Hitting the power button on the telly remote, she let out a slight groan as she pushed herself up off the couch.

Request number **four** had arrived.

Opening her door Molly felt a quick tensing of her body, causing her breath to catch in her throat. On her threshold wasn't the usual motorbike courier who had handed over the small black nylon pouch the previous three times. Instead, standing before her was Mycroft Holmes himself.

“I hope you don't mind me bringing tonight's donation over myself." Mycroft swept pass Molly without waiting for an invitation. "You don't seem to be having much success on your own."

Suddenly, Molly shook her head, "Sorry, where are my manners. Here, let me take your coat."

Quickly hanging up Mycroft’s trench coat on an empty hook by the door, she watched as Mycroft purposefully moved further into her flat. With no explication he removed his suit coat, draping it over the back of one of her wooden dining room chairs.

“Mycroft, what are you doing?” Molly asked nervously.

While undoing his cufflinks, he replied simply, “Getting ready." 

Placing the cufflinks on the table with a small clink then rolling up his sleeves, Mycroft made his way into the kitchen with Molly trailing after him. 

“Getting ready for what?”

Opening the drawer that contained clean tea towels Mycroft took one out and laid it next to the sink. 

“Seriously, what ARE you doing?” Molly’s tone was getting more agitated.

Turning the water tap on full Mycroft did a thorough scrub on his hands and arms. Holding his hands up, letting the water drip down into the sink he looked at Molly. 

"If you would be so kind," his eyes flicked down to the towel on the side.

Letting out a huff of frustration Molly turned off the water. With annoyance, she draped the towel over Mycroft’s wet arms. After meticulously drying his arms and hands he folded the towel and hung it on the handle of her oven.

“Right then. Shall we get your bedroom ready?”

"What are you talking about?"

"Your bedroom. We need to set it up properly."

"My bedroom?"

Muttering under his breath Mycroft was already moving again through Molly’s flat, "You could do this on the couch, but I think you would be much more comfortable on your bed." 

"Hold on Mycroft. I don’t need your help."

Her heart started to pound as she watched Mycroft move towards the closed bedroom door, turn the knob, and push the door open.

“Mycroft Holmes, we are not going to-”

Despite the shouting, Mycroft gave no indication he was paying the slightest bit of attention to Molly. 

“After a discreet conversation at with a top fertility doctor, I have been advised what you need to do.”  As he was speaking Mycroft was fluffing up two pillows.

“During the procedure, your hips should be elevated and when you are finished, your legs need to go up the wall.”

Placing the pillows on top of each other, he adjusted the stack until they were exactly 18-inches from the head of the bed.

Finally turning to face Molly, Mycroft gave her a relaxed and satisfied smile. “If you wish to position yourself, I shall excuse myself and return shortly with tonight’s donation."

"Mycroft I don’t need to do this-- what I do is fine."

Mycroft’s gaze deflected the challenge, and the response, “If **your way** worked this line item would have been marked as done on my to-do list months ago,” tumbled from his lips.

Crossing her arms across her chest, Molly showed no signs of yielding.

After a moment Mycroft drew a breath and hummed. "There is, of course, a second option."

"What’s that?"

"We could conceive your child the old-fashioned way."

"Is that a threat or are you trying to flirt with me?"

"Your choice.” There was no hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Rolling her eyes Molly let out a long resigned sigh — she knew there was no way out. "I’ll wait here and--" she gestured over her bed, "when you come back.

With an air of smugness, Mycroft headed off to Molly’s loo. She heard the door shut and the lock turn.

Ten minutes later Mycroft returned looking as if he had done nothing more interesting than catching up on some emails.

"Here you are." Placing the full syringe in her outstretched palm Molly could feel the warm softness of recently washed hands.

"Hips up, place the—" gesturing to her hand "—inside. Apparently having an orgasm at this point is highly recommended. The vaginal contractions help draw the sperm up into the cervix. Feet elevated for at least 10 minutes. Is that clear?"

"I’m struggling with the fact you said the words ‘vaginal contractions’."

Mycroft gave her a withering look.

"Yes, Fine. I am a doctor I know how it works."

"Good. I’ll be in your sitting room to make sure you are not disturbed by the phone or the door. Don’t worry-- I won’t be listening." 

 

///

 

Fifteen minutes later there was a soft knock on Molly’s bedroom door

"Come in."

The door was slowly pushed open, and Mycroft, cufflinks and suit coat reinstated, paused in the doorway. His brow slightly furrowed as his gaze rested on Molly, her fully clothed legs, still up the wall. 

“Don’t worry. I kept my hips up when I put my clothes back on. I wasn’t going to lie here half-naked with you in the other room."

"Please let Anthea know how you get on. I’ll see myself out. You may get up in your own time."

Without hesitation, he turned, and Molly could hear him making his way to the front door. 

“Thank you Mycroft,” she called after him. “Next time I'll make sure my legs are shaved. Just in case.”

"Is that a threat or are you trying to flirt with me?” came the quick response from the other side of her flat. 

"Your choice,” Molly called back brightly. 

Molly heard Mycroft chuckle before her front door closed. 

  
  



	6. Date for the Diary

Anthea focused her eyes on the sheet of paper held in her perfectly manicured hands. She took a small breath and speaking from her diaphragm read aloud, making sure to enunciate the words slowly and clearly. 

“Your appointment with the heads of the Bank of England and the IMF has been pushed back to 10:35 am next Tuesday .”

The scratching of an extra-fine point fountain pen updating a paper diary filled the room. 

Moving her index finger down the page to keep her place she waited until the room became silent before reading off the final item on her paper. 

“Thursday the Prime Minister needs to pull your weekly meeting forward to 11 am .”

“Does this interfere with my sub-committee breakfast meeting discussing the Brexit roadmap?”

“No sir.”

After noting this change, the click of the pen cap followed by the closing of the diary indicated her boss had finished their morning meeting. 

“There is one more thing.”

Anthea paused as Mycroft’s steel-blue eyes locked onto her. It was obvious he knew full well there were no more schedule updates. A slight pang of guilt softly stabbed under her rib cage.  After she delivered this news the man sitting across from her would never quite be the same again.

“Molly is pregnant.”

Slowly blinking twice Mycroft nodded.

“Of course she is. It has been four weeks since—” The sentence hung over the desk between them unfinished.

“Eighth of June”

Frowning Mycroft shook his head weakly.

“The baby is due on the 8th of June .”

There was only a tiny shrug of his shoulders in response.

“In case you want to write it down.”

“That will be unnecessary. My next, and final, action in relation to Molly’s offspring will be to set up a monthly direct debit for its financial support.”

“Yes, sir.”

Anthea did not make a move.

“Oh. There’s more.” Mycroft’s tone was mocking.

Producing a pre-filled out form from a file folder Anthea passed it across the desk. The now frowning Mycroft took it without comment. A small yellow flag indicated where a signature was required

“I have filled out the paperwork to increase Molly’s surveillance level to Delta.”

“Why?”

“Do you know the percentage of first trimester miscarriages?”

“Not off the top of my head.”

“Ten to 25 percent of all recognized pregnancies end in miscarriage.  And 80 percent of all miscarriages happen in the first trimester.”

A quick look of shock crossed Mycroft’s face before his annoyed grimace returned.

“A security level where an agent will be able to reach her in less than two minutes is completely unnecessary,” huffed Mycroft. “Your miscarriage argument is a convenient excuse. She doesn’t need this level of surveillance.” 

“But her child does. Given who the fath-“

Mycroft’s icy cold glare drilled into her, stopping the sentence in mid-word.

“Although — ” scrutinizing the form, Mycroft picked up his pen and uncapped it, letting it hover over the signature line. 

“Molly’s security level should have been raised months ago due to the possible interest in her by known people of questionable intent given her close relationship with Sherlock — not me.”

With a flourish, he signed his name and held out the piece of paper to Anthea. 

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now I believe we both have work to do.”

—

(Later That Evening)

It had been irritating.  All of it. The morning meeting which ran six minutes over. The weak tea and stale biscuits offered by the Home Secretary as an apology for his latest public misstep. The afternoon conference call that kept cutting out at critical moments. 

But now, finally, he was home. After checking the post, he wandered into the kitchen feeling only marginally better.  Finding the fridge empty save for an inch of milk that went out of date yesterday, a rotting lettuce and a jar of caviar, he gave up on food altogether despite the protest from his stomach. Moving deeper into his house Mycroft undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie on the way to his study.

//

Pouring himself a generous measure of single malt he watched the amber liquid as he swirled it around in the heavy glass tumbler before taking a mouthful; enjoying the sting and smoky flavour as it slid down his throat. 

Letting out a small groan he sank down into an armchair by the unlit fireplace. 

//

With the tumbler, having been refilled for the second time, waiting on the small oak table next to his chair, Mycroft pulled his diary from the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. 

Slowly flipping through the months, he stopped at the second week of June. 

Running a finger over the blank area of June 8th Mycroft sighed heavily  before taking another gulp from his glass. 

As he leant his head back against the leather chair and closed his eyes, foggy memories of Mummy and Father appeared. 

_ They are decades younger and standing in the front hall having just returned home; both smiling from ear to ear. Mummy is holding a bundle wrapped in a blue-plaid blanket.  _

_ “Come here, darling. Meet your brother.” Holding open his arms nervously Mummy transfers the baby boy into them. The baby is much lighter than Mycroft had anticipated. Looking down at the tiny head covered in dark curls he feels his heart swell almost to the point bursting.  _

_ “Hello Sherlock,” he whispers.  _

_ And a year later, this time the pink bundle is in Father’s arms.  _

_ Beaming, Mummy reaches out to take the squirming toddler Sherlock from Mycroft. “Boys, your sister has arrived.”  _

_ Pulling back the blanket for a better look Mycroft gasps as he draws a knuckle down a tiny soft cheek.  _

_ “She is so beautiful,” Mycroft gushes, expertly taking the bundle from his father.  _

_ “Hello, Eurus I’m your big brother Mycroft.”  _

Slowly blinking open his eyes Mycroft pulls out his pen and very deliberately writes “Baby Due” on June 8th in his diary.

Closing it with a snap the diary is quickly replaced inside his jacket. After finishing the scotch in one swallow Mycroft proceeds to stumble through his house to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The appearance of Brexit: Yea, I know. If you are actually charting the timeline of this fic I am not sure the whole Brexit thing was going on. Maybe Mycroft was thinking about Brexit long before any of the rest of us were -- it makes me feel better to think he was.
> 
> Miscarriage Statistics: Some random website I found via Google. 
> 
> Enjoy!


	7. Uncle Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oik = (British informal slang) an uncouth or obnoxious person.

Heavy with the usual dread that accompanied a visit to Sherlock, Mycroft climbed the stairs to 221B, glancing at his watch, he mentally allocated 23 minutes for this chore.

Sherlock’s flat contained the usual chaos: various periodicals in mid-read were scattered throughout the living room; curious smells were coming from a selection of experiments – most of which should not be performed outside of a government approved lab; a laundry basket of half-folded London Underground employee uniforms sat under the window.  His little brother was sitting at his computer busily typing away, and John was nowhere to be seen.

“Good afternoon Sherlock.” The greeting was as bright as Mycroft could force.

There was no response.

“Oh.  I didn’t know it was a non-talking day.”

From outside, the noise of an ambulance in the distance wafted into the flat mingling with the ticking of a clock and the clicking of the keyboard.  

Letting out an annoyed grunt Mycroft’s air of dignity dropped along with his shoulders. 

“Oik. I hope there is milk for tea.” 

It was while opening the fridge that Mycroft found the one notable addition to Sherlock’s flat: a grainy ultrasound photo being held in place on the fridge door by one of those magnets with a clip. 

The image was little more than a small, oval, black void in a sea of fuzziness. On the photo was stuck a pink Post-It note and written on it in Molly’s loopy script, ‘Hello Uncle Sherlock!!’ There was a smile drawn under the two exclamation points.

“I see you found the photo your baby mama dropped off,” said Sherlock not bothering to look up from his computer screen.

“She is not my ‘baby mama’ Sherlock.”

“In fact brother dear that is exactly what Molly is.  The mother of your child, who you did not marry and with whom you are not currently involved. ” Sherlock gave his brother a smug look.

Mycroft with his hand still on the fridge door glared at Sherlock. “Still. Refrain from referring to Molly in this crass way. It’s demeaning.”

“The truth often is.”

“I’m more curious about the message than the photo of what can only be considered a blob of cells at this point. Uncle Sherlock? Really?”

Mycroft turned his attention to making tea.

“As you well know, close friends of people who have children are referred to as uncle or aunt. It is a ridiculous and flawed system to give small children a hierarchy of adults which I, of course, do not agree with. Apparently, Molly has already bestowed upon me the moniker “Uncle.” Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically while typing. “Then again— I am  _ actually _ that blob of cells Uncle.” He stood up and walked across the room taking the mug of tea Mycroft held out to him. “Smart one indeed,” uttered Sherlock in a stage whisper.

Assessing his brother coldly, Mycroft settled into John’s chair; Sherlock his own.

“Interesting. It’s not like you to take an interest in others Sherlock, especially those who have not been born yet.” Mycroft took a deliberate sip of his tea.  “And here I thought you were against this whole thing.”

“Vehemently against it, but once Molly has her mind made up, it’s nearly impossible to change.” Sherlock’s half-hearted shoulder shrug was accompanied with a resigned shake of his head. 

Sherlock levelled his gaze on his big brother.  “I initially found your participation in this farce horrifying. But then I realised, I will be the real uncle of Molly’s baby, not a fake one like John or,” with a confused look on his face Sherlock pulled a name out of the air,  “Geoff-- so thanks for that. Cheers!” A smarmy grin covered Sherlock’s face as he raised his mug towards Mycroft. 

Clenching his jaw Mycroft remained quiet while his little brother kept talking. 

“Given this flat’s location, I am sure I will be regularly pushing a pram through Regent’s Park to give Molly some peace. God knows if her child is half as annoying and intense as you are she is going to need all the respite she can get. John and I are there most afternoons with Rosie anyway. By then Rosie will be walking. Molly won’t even have to bring over a pram,” with a self-satisfied smirk on his face Sherlock brought the mug to his mouth for a drink. 

Mycroft was startled to realize he hadn’t considered how easily Molly’s child would slot into this odd little family of friends. Whether he wished it or not news of the child would reach him. He waited a moment for this discovery to register as unpalatable -- but oddly -- it didn't.

“How is she?” Mycroft asked quietly while picking off an invisible piece of fluff from his trousers.

Sherlock frowned, “Haven’t you seen her?”

Mycroft shook his head.

“She really is your baby mama.”

“Sherlock! Stop it!” chastised Mycroft. “I have been exceptionally busy.”

“Molly is utterly exhausted and has been throwing up every day for weeks making it impossible to keep her condition a secret. Mike moved her out of the morgue and into a small office so she can focus on writing up her research. No spare body parts over the next few months for me. I blame you.” Sherlock let out a humph.

“I must go. I’m already late.” Mycroft finished his tea, washed, dried and returned his mug to the cupboard. 

“Give my best to Molly when you see her next.” Sherlock, who was now back at his computer, gave a non-committal grunt.

//

When John returned home, he walked into the kitchen, putting grocery bags of food on the table. Opening up the fridge to put in a head of lettuce he stopped and frowned. 

“Hey Sherlock, what happened to Molly’s ultrasound photo?” The pink Post- It note was now just stuck directly to the fridge.

“Mycroft stopped by earlier. He took it when he thought I wasn’t looking.”

John’s eyebrows raised as he looked at Sherlock who had a knowing smile on his face.


	8. Morning Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Graphic description of vomiting.
> 
> Molly is now 10 weeks pregnant. The average length of a human pregnancy is 40 weeks.

Molly sat on her bathroom floor with her back against the tub and her knees pulled up to her chest. She had just closed her eyes hoping this would ease the tightness in her stomach. 

It didn’t.

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

There was a soft knock on her front door. It was hardly a choice: move to answer the door and vomit again, or stay put.

The eventual sound of footsteps in her flat, under normal circumstances, would have caused alarm, but not today.  Assassins on the prowl, kidnappers planning dastardly deeds, or international terrorists ransacking her flat— _whatever_ \- she had already vomited twice since arriving home. Molly didn’t move.

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._  

The intruder was slowly walking around her flat obviously looking for her. Her eyes still closed Molly heard the footsteps stop outside the bathroom door and the door pushed open. After the clunk of male steps across the tiled bathroom floor, she could feel someone standing next to her.

Whoever it was in the bathroom with her didn’t speak.

Slowly opening one eye, Molly looked up. 

“What do you want?” Talking made saliva pool in her mouth.

“I need another copy of the ultrasound photo.”

“What happened to the last one?” Slowly moving over to the toilet and opening up her mouth she let the excess saliva drip into the bowl.

“My brother stole it.” Sherlock opened up the cupboard beneath the sink, took out a flannel and re-closed the door.

Molly’s head lolled to the side to stare at up at him.

“Did you trade it or sell it?” A low groan escaped as her stomach clenched.

“Neither.”

“If I find out some Eastern European EDM group is using my child’s ultrasound picture as their logo so-help-me-god I’m going to—“ the sentence was irrupted by the sound of soggy retching.

“I said-- Mycroft took it.”

“I don’t believe you.” Molly emphatically spat into the loo. “Why would he? He made it very clear he isn’t the slightest bit paternal and has no interest in this baby.”

“Perhaps it has just dawned on him you are carrying a teeny-tiny British citizen who needs his surveillance, just like the rest of us.”

Her heart rate increased as another wave of nausea caused bile to rise in the back of her throat.

“As we speak he is probably trying to figure out how to fit your uterus with one of his special waterproof micro CCTV cameras.” 

Sherlock had turned on the tap and was watching his hand as he moved it beneath the water flow checking the temperature. 

“He gets very possessive of digital images you know. The poor ultrasound technician who has encroached on Mycroft’s turf doesn’t know what is about to hit him.” Sherlock’s face contorted into a smile before his body began to shake with laughter.

“Sherlock! Stop it,” Molly begged. “You know I can’t laugh— it makes it so much worse.” Tears of laughter of were streaming down her face as Molly tried to wipe them away with the back of one hand, while the other hand tightened its grip on the rim of the toilet bowl.

The sound of Molly’s phone ringing joined the racket in her bathroom.

Quickly drying his hands Sherlock picked the phone from the counter and started to laugh again as he showed the screen name to Molly. 

‘Mycroft’

“Speak of the devil,” Sherlock replied with the flick of an eyebrow and a smirk. 

“Uuugghh,” Molly moaned as the contents of her stomach violently exited her mouth, splashing into her toilet.

Sherlock hit the call reject button and started muttering while texting. 

_“Don’t call me. Just the mere thought of talking to you makes me vomit. Honestly, you make me sick. I am actually puking up right now.”_

“Sherlock!” growled Molly her eyes wide with horror, strings of bile hanging from her lips. “You did not just text that to your brother!” Her head involuntarily flipped down, as she threw up again. 

Sherlock just shrugged and continued texting.

Moments later he put the phone down on the edge of the sink. Molly felt Sherlock’s large hand rub her back with long smooth strokes. After a few minutes, she took a deep breath, sitting back on her heels.

He handed the warm wet flannel to her, which she immediately used to wipe her face.

“Better?”

“Yea. Better.” Molly held up her hands to Sherlock who effortlessly pulled her to standing.

“I brought soup. Tomato stayed down yesterday.”

“Sound like the perfect last meal before government agents arrive to throw me out of the country thanks to you.”

“Brush your teeth. I’ll go start your dinner.” Sherlock handed Molly her phone and headed into the kitchen.

Steeling herself she flicked opened her texts to find out what Sherlock had said to Mycroft.

 

SMS: Can’t talk. Currently on my loo floor about to be sick. -Molly 

SMS: Can I be of any assistance? -MH

SMS: No. Only time will fix this. -Molly 

SMS: How long? -MH

SMS: 2-3 weeks if I’m lucky. Could go on for months. -Molly

SMS: Take care. -MH

SMS: Thanks. x

 

Pocketing her phone Molly slowly walked into the kitchen.

She sat down on the tall kitchen stool and pulled her jumper sleeve and breathed into it to filter the smells of cooking. 

“Thanks for dealing with Mycroft.” 

“He is difficult enough to cope with without a mouth full of sick,” replied Sherlock. His attention remained on stirring the pan of soup. 

“You seriously don’t know why he took the photo?”

“Nope.”

“Do you think he has hung it on his fridge?” questioned Molly. An image settled into her mind of the ultrasound photo hanging on Mycroft’s fridge along with takeaway menus, Eurus’s visitation schedule and a list of private mobile numbers for members of the G8.

“Of course not. It will be in a file folder on his desk.”

“Really? That’s sort of weird.”

“Do you want me to get it back?”

“No. It’s okay.” Molly sighed. “He is the father.”

“Stop reminding me.” 

//

 

Anthea looked at her watch and mentally calculated how long it was going to take Mycroft to reach the conference room in Portcullis House. After sending a text to Mycroft’s driver, she knocked lightly on Mycroft’s office door before pushing it open. 

Sitting at his desk Mycroft had his mobile in his hand and a far-off look on his face. On the desk in front of him was a file folder she didn’t recognise. 

“Sir?” Anthea asked quietly. There was no response. Slowly she approached his desk and tried to rouse him again.

“Sir?” this time slightly louder.

Startled out of his thoughts Mycroft looked at Anthea with confusion clouding his face momentarily before his usual neutral expression returned.

“Your car is waiting to take you to your next meeting.”

“Yes, of course.”

Giving his head a quick shake, Mycroft put the file folder in his top desk drawer before standing up and retrieving his coat from the hanger by the door.

“For the next three weeks please include all Delta level surveillance reports into my afternoon update.”

“Of course Sir.

//

 

Sherlock placed a bowl of soup in front of Molly then took the seat behind the second bowl. Even before he had a chance to take the first spoonful his phone pinged.

 

SMS: I found your ultrasound photo in his desk. ??? -Anthea

SMS: Earlier today he secretly stole it off my fridge. -SH

SMS: This could get messy. -Anthea

SMS: Very messy indeed. -SH

SMS: Does Molly know he took it? -Anthea

SMS: Yes -SH 

SMS: Does she care? -Anthea

SMS: Not really -SH

SMS: I'm surprised. -Anthea

SMS: Me too. -SH

SMS: It's going to be a long 30wks. -Anthea

SMA: It certainly is. -SH

 

 

Molly nudged Sherlock with her foot to bring his attention back to the bowl of soup in front of him. 

“Hey. No phones at the table.”

“Since when?” Flipping over his phone and placing it next to him at the table he picked up a spoon and stirred it around in the bowl.

“Since I’ve got to start practising how to be a mum,” replied Molly with a smile that reached her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I have had various questions about where this fic is going so I thought I would add this note to help clarify things and manage expectations.
> 
> First of all, I would like to be very clear: Ship and let ship is my motto. I don't care how you got here or why but when you read my fics* you are going to get Mollcroft. One way or another Molly and Mycroft will end up together. 
> 
> Mycroft/Molly will be the only relationship explored/focused on in this fic. 
> 
> So if you have bought a ticket thinking this Vanguard-Class Submarine (aka HMS Mollcroft) is taking the long route to Sherlolly Island, sorry, your ship leaves from Pier 8. We are heading straight into Mollcroft Bay and not even having a port call to Johnlock Harbour. You are welcome to tag along, but you are going to charter your own helicopter back to the mainland if you don't end up where you want to be. : ) 
> 
> Now, about this chapter ... in the many outlines I have done for this fic this chapter never appeared -- but when I sat down to write -- there it was. Any fiction writers out there will know that sometimes your characters do what they want to do, not what you had planned. Sherlock has decided he is going to be the protective one while Mycroft gets his act together and he wanted you all to know that. 
> 
> There may be a need to write up the conversation between Sherlock and Molly when he found out she was pregnant with Mycroft's baby and how he decided to embrace his Uncle-hood. If this happens I'll have to figure out how to slot it into the story. (Typical Sherlock, making things awkward!)
> 
> Thanks for all of the great comments! It makes my daily writing sessions very happy!
> 
> *Full disclosure -- I have written ONE non-Mollcroft fic. It is Molstrade. (Dirty Ideas https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350622)


	9. Breakfast with Greg

Pushing open the sleek wood and glass door, Greg scanned the room: whitewashed walls, brushed concrete floor, lines of almost matching tables and chairs filled mostly with men in suits enjoying one of the best English breakfasts in London.  

He spied Mycroft already sitting at their preferred spot in the back corner. From this position, each of them would have a clear view of the front door. A smile settled on his face as he moved through the restaurant. By the time Greg arrived at the table Mycroft was standing to greet him.

“Mr Holmes,” Greg winked as he gave the outstretched hand a firm shake. “It’s been ages.”

“Indeed it has Detective Inspector,” replied Mycroft with a hint of amusement in his voice at the false formality. “Apologies. I have been extremely busy.”

The fib Mycroft was telling was patently obvious to the trained copper.

If this was how Mycroft wanted to play the game, he might as well get stuck in. Greg let a full grin settle on his face

“Yeh.‘Course you have. I hear congratulations are in order. Well done mate.” Greg gave Mycroft a friendly clap on the back.

Settling across the table from each other Mycroft stared blankly at Greg.

“You managed to get Molly up the duff.” Greg gave the hard laminated menu only a cursory glance before handing to Mycroft.

“Technically, she got herself ‘up the duff’, as you so eloquently put it, Gregory.  I was sitting in the other room when it happened,” Mycroft replied absentmindedly as he scanned the menu. 

Two mugs of tea arrived.

“Yea. She told me. Guess this proves it. You are officially a wanker.” Greg ripped open a packet of sugar and poured it into the mug closest to him while he tried not to laugh.

Giving Greg a filthy look over the menu Mycroft rolled his eyes. “How long have you been waiting to use that one?”

“Month and a half.” The copper shrugged as he took a drink of his tea, still with the smile on his face.

Rolling his eyes again, Mycroft replaced the menu on the table causing another snigger from Greg.

Once their breakfast orders were placed and the waiter was out of earshot Mycroft sighed with slight irritation. 

“Come on, you know I’m just joshing you. What’s up, mate? You are wound up even more than usual.” Greg drew in a deep breath as he scanned his friend. The tiredness around his eyes and slumped shoulders at 10 am on a Saturday indicated Mycroft wasn’t sleeping much but probably was drinking too much. “Sherlock being Sherlock?”

“No more than usual.” Greg noticed the worry remained in Mycroft’s eyes. 

“We’ve sorted him out before, we can do it again.” Forcing a smile Greg tried to look positive while memories of all the situations he and Mycroft had to fish Sherlock out of over the years whizzed through his mind.

Sitting well back in his seat Greg looked down his nose at Mycroft. He knew deep down deducing a Holmes was just asking for trouble but he couldn’t stop himself. “You worried about any other ‘family member‘?” uttered Greg quietly.

“The term ‘family member’ would be considered a stretch in this case.” The words were uttered so quietly by Mycroft, Greg had to strain to hear them.

Confusion furrowed the coppers brow for a moment before his face lit up with discovery. “Oh! You’re worried about the oven, not the bun.”

A soft blush of embarrassment coloured Mycroft’s cheeks as he dipped his gaze and began to intently study the wood grain of the table. 

“You are simply full of euphemisms today aren’t you?”

“Yea. I am.” The heavy gaze of the Met was now on Mycroft. Greg knew his powers of deduction paled in comparison to his breakfast companion, but they were still above average.  “When was the last time you saw her?”

The silence from Mycroft was deafening.

Utter astonishment caused Greg’s jaw to drop open unconsciously. “You have not seen her since the night you wanked in her flat.” 

“Correct.” The reply was quiet and curt.

“Jesus. This is not at all how I thought you would play this. How can you not be obsessing? You obsess about everything. I was expecting you to be texting me regularly with info from one of those pregnancy apps, telling me stuff like the baby is now the size of a walnut.” Greg ran his hand through his thick grey hair before it began tapping the table unconsciously. 

Mycroft gave a laboured sigh before taking a deep breath, and adjusting his place setting; his eyes still not meeting Greg’s. “My life has no room for a child, but I find myself thinking about Molly’s well-being a great deal.”

“I can tell. I saw the Delta security team outside her flat last week, and it’s about bloody time mate. I don’t want to rehash this here but had she been under Delta coverage, your sister wouldn’t have been able to pack her flat with explosives.”

Mycroft’s jaw was clenched and his eyes flicked up to shoot daggers across the table. “I do not need a performance review from you Detective Inspector. As we both know hindsight is twenty-twenty.”

“I know, I know. Sorry.” Greg took a deep breath and another drink of tea to let the tension pass. 

Full plates of steaming hot cooked breakfasts arrived in front of the pair and a comfortable silence settled over the table as they began eating. 

“So. Impress me. Whatcha got planned when the kid arrives? Drone coverage. Infrared kit. I’m sure you will be using the latest tech.”

“As you noted Molly has Delta coverage.” Shrugging, Mycroft continued to elegantly cut his sausage into bite-sized pieces without looking up.

The fork full of sausage, eggs and beans stopped half-way to Greg’s mouth. “Sure, but what else?”

“There is no need for any additional coverage. The “kid” as you call it, is nothing to do with me. In a handful of months, Molly will be a single mother, of which there are thousands here in the capital. Most of whom survive perfectly well without personal security teams.”

“You are shitting me.” Greg quickly wiped his hands and mouth with his napkin. “Delta security is only basic coverage. And it won’t help a bit with the birth.”

Mycroft with a mouthful of food gave an unimpressed shrug, clearly indicating he needed a lot more convincing to change his mind.

“Alright here’s the deal. When a woman is going to have a baby she has lots of things on her mind. And one of the things she obsesses about is where to give birth —   ‘Will there be enough exercise balls so I can sit on one when I want to?’ ‘How many birthing pools are there—?’

“Birthing pools?” Mycroft flicked a questioning eyebrow towards Greg. 

“Yea. Some women want to give birth in water.”

A disbelieving look settled on Mycroft’s face.

“No kidding. Seriously they do. YouTube it later but give yourself plenty of time after you eat — trust me on this one. Anyway. But there’s a lot more to consider when choosing where to have a baby.”

“I am sure Molly will--” Seeing Greg’s face became serious Mycroft stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes watching intently as Greg  pulled his battered leather briefcase onto his lap with a sigh. 

“I’m in the middle of investigating a kidnapping ring.”  

Handing Mycroft two sheets of paper stapled together Greg sat back and watched the face of the eldest Holmes as the look of slight irritation mixed with humouring swiftly morphed into shock complete with raised eyebrows. 

“This can not be true.”

“Sadly, it is. This spreadsheet lists for the last 12 months, attempted infant abductions, successful abductions and various other serious security breaches like ward windows left unlocked overnight for all London maternity units.”

Mycroft grew a little pale as he held the list up to Greg. “Which one-?” 

“That one. That’s Molly’s nearest maternity ward.” Greg pointed to a record near the bottom of the list.  

A small gasp escaped from Mycroft.

"On the second page is the list of registered sex offenders in the borough next to Molly’s. The numbers and categories will be a bit different, but not much.”

Taking a deep breath Mycroft held Greg’s gaze for an uncomfortably long time. “What would you have me do with this information?”

“Don’t know.”  Gazing off into the distance Greg became lost in thought. “As soon as my wife told me she was pregnant with our first- wham!- suddenly the world seemed a much more dangerous place." Greg, back in the present,  flashed a cheeky grin to lighten the mood. "But, hey. I guess that’s what it's like for you all the time.” 

Replying with an enigmatic hmm Mycroft started eating again.

Greg gave a casual look at his watch and started to eat faster. “I’ve got to get going.”

“Am I keeping you from something Detective Inspector?

“Yea. I’m seeing Molly in an hour. She wants to have a quick look around the baby department of John Lewis after she picks up the last few Christmas presents.”

“Sounds dire,” huffed Mycroft.

“Nah. I always loved the baby gear when my kids were tiny. The strollers, those strappy pouch things so you wear the baby on your chest.  The car seat regulations have changed so much in just a few years. I bet your car has one of those ISOFIX adaptors in it. It will be dead easy for you to fit the car seat.”

“Gregory, there will never be a baby seat in my car.”

After silently giving Mycroft a long look, then pushing back from the table, Greg stood up. 

“Yea, you just keep telling yourself that mate. I’ve got to go.”

Fishing in his pocket for his wallet Greg tossed two bills and a handful of coins onto the table. He picked up the papers, putting them back in the folder and opening his bag.

Mycroft slowly raised a hand causing Gregory to stop and stare down at him. The pair looked intently at each other; it was clear behind Mycroft’s steady gaze he was making a huge decision.

“According to the app today Molly’s baby is the size of an avocado seed. Please leave the folder Gregory.” 

“Good man,” Greg gave Mycroft a wink as he turned over the folder before heading out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sincere apologies for the delay in updating. I have started a new job and things have been super busy. I am trying to get myself back on a regular posting schedule now that the first crazy weeks are over. 
> 
> As you can tell, the story is now taking place in December. The holiday season will be mentioned but it won't be a huge focus in the upcoming chapters.
> 
> Enjoy!


	10. December 24

“ What possessed her?” The British government’s tone had a distinctly juvenile whine to it as he trudged along after his brother.

“No idea,” replied Sherlock. His eyes were focused ahead determinedly walking towards Baker Street.

“She hates us.”

“Clearly.”

“Asking us to run this “little errand” for her.  It’s so crowded we couldn’t even take the car. Why would she do this?” Confusion had replaced whining as Mycroft’s voice rose in anger. “Why are you not complaining? You always complain.”

“I am just trying to get home,” answered Sherlock with a glance over his shoulder. “Look, she is our mother Mycroft. Stop assuming there is method to her madness. There isn’t.”

As the pair began to climb the stairs to 221B, Mycroft started to rant. “I asked her six weeks ago if she needed anything else for Christmas and she insisted she needed nothing. And yet today, of all days, she sends us out for cheese. But not just any cheese, Neal’s Yard Cheese. Absolute insanity.”

“She is a law unto herself,” replied Sherlock simply as he opened the door to his flat.

In unison, the brothers gave a collective sigh of relief as they stepped over the threshold and into familiar solitude, safe from the maddening crowds of December 24.

Closing the door behind him Mycroft let his eyes close. He rolled his neck and took a few deep breaths as he forced visions of the insane crowds of holiday shoppers out of his head.

“MOLLY!” Sherlock shouted at the top of his lungs. “This is my home, not a public lavatory.”

Mycroft’s eyes snapped open.  The moment he had been avoiding for months came barrelling at him like a freight train.

“Then you shouldn’t put your flat in such a convenient place.” Molly’s chipper comments through the loo door were quickly followed by a toilet flush and a tap being turned on then off.

Sherlock had tossed his scarf on his chair and was standing, hands on hips, in front of the fireplace, scanning the mantle for the box of matches.

The sound of Molly’s voice, much to his dismay, drew Mycroft’s body two steps further into the flat, completely evaporating the slim option he had to slip out the door.

Mycroft stood rooted to the spot while his mind raced: There was no sense lamenting his idiocy for not carefully orchestrating a meeting with Molly after her pregnancy had been announced. Evade and escape had worked for four months but now, there was no escape. It couldn’t possibly be as awkward as he feared. He was a grown man. Not only a grown man but a middle-aged grown man, as the aches and pains reminded him more evenings than not, especially when he had been sitting behind his desk for too long. He was a worldly man who had travelled to dozens of countries. Over the course of these travels and throughout his lifetime he had come into visual contact with thousands, no, tens-of-thousands of people. Statistically, nearly 50-percent of these people will have been female. And a number of them had, undoubtedly, been pregnant. He had seen pregnant women before. And now Molly was one of those pregnant women and soon she would come out of the loo. It was even quite possible she wouldn’t look particularly pregnant.  Simple. There will be nothing extraordinary about this. 

Mycroft took a deep breath which he hoped Sherlock, still looking for the matchbox, didn’t notice.

“I am surprised you went out- oh Mycroft, hi.” Coming out of the loo Molly had headed towards the kitchen to turn on the kettle but seeing Mycroft had caused her to pause and a large smile to settle on her face.

Visions of the last time he had seen her, lying on her bed with her legs up the wall behind her bed filled Mycroft’s mind as she walked towards him. 

Her outfit, knitted tunic and a loose cardigan over leggings gave no question as to her current state.  Molly’s hair was up in a bun and she was— she was glowing. Mycroft had always believed this term to be something of a lie that men told bloated, self-conscious, gestating women to make them feel better. But no —  she really did look radiant. In fact, to Mycroft, she had never looked better.

This week’s text from the pregnancy app hidden on his phone began playing in his head:

_ The baby is around 11.5cm long now … _

“Mycroft are you okay?” The happiness in her eyes at seeing him had been replaced by unease.

_ … about the size of an orange. _

His eyes had fallen to the bump and the reality of the situation hit him, filling him with utter astonishment and wonder; making him feel like he had never encountered a human being in this state before. As his world closed in on him he heard Molly scream for Sherlock.

_ All of its limbs and joints are now fully formed. _

Mycroft could feel strong arms pulling him— then pushing him unceremoniously into John’s chair. While there was a relief knowing his legs wouldn’t give out, the fact that he was now eye level to Molly’s bump as she bent over him with worry — even if it was mostly medical — made it hard to breathe again.

_ They might also have 'found' their thumb and worked out how to suck it by now. _

“Where were you two? What happened to him?” He could feel the coolness of Molly’s fingertips on the inside of his wrist. “His pulse is racing.” Her voice was filled with urgency and a tinge of anger directed towards Sherlock.

“It’s Mummy’s fault. She made us go out—” Sherlock gestured vaguely towards the window. “—into that mass of last-minute holiday shopping chaos.”

Molly flicked an eyebrow at Sherlock, her fingers were now loosening the knot of Mycroft’s tie and undoing the top button of his shirt. Normally he would be howling at the invasion of his personal space but with the restriction at his neck gone it made trying to remember to breathe significantly less difficult. In … Out … In … Out …

“Well, whatever it was, it didn’t do your brother any good. He needs tea— two sugars. Now.”

Sherlock made a grumbling noise until a pointed look from Molly made him turn towards the kitchen with a huff.

Pulling one of the kitchen chairs over next to John’s chair Molly sat and looked intently at Mycroft, “What happened Mycroft? Was it just the shopping or something else?”

_ The baby is around 11.5cm long now … _

“Extremely busy —  and the shopping.” Mycroft stammered quickly. “That’s all. Nothing else.”

_ … about the size of an orange. _

After handing a mug of tea to Mycroft, and one to Molly, Sherlock sat down in his chair. Mycroft could feel the weight of Sherlock’s gaze and a kernel of angst settled in his stomach as he prepared to be humiliated by his brother for his reaction to seeing Molly.

Taking a large drink of tea and a deep jagged breath, he soon felt the colour return to his face and the strength to look at his brother. Much to his surprise, Sherlock seemed not interested in exploiting this newfound weakness.

“That’s better.” Molly patted Mycroft’s knee.

“So why exactly are you weeing in my flat?” asked Sherlock to Molly, ignoring his brother completely.

“I was taking a walk to stretch my legs between my shifts at the hotline and I was desperate.”

“Hotline?” Mycroft glanced between Sherlock and Molly.

“Molly volunteers at one of the crisis hotlines during the holidays. And this year apparently she is even doing over time.” It was clear by the tone of Sherlock’s voice he didn’t approve.

Shaking his head Mycroft looked disbelievingly at Molly. “Is that wise? Back to back shifts? Given your—” His eyes dropped again to her midsection as if drawn by a magnet.

_ All of its limbs and joints are now fully formed. _

“I know --,” she rubbed her hand gently over her bump which caused a lump to grow in Mycroft’s throat. “But this is the last Christmas I’ll be by myself so— might as well do what I can. I don’t mind,” she said cheerily. “And they organise a taxi for me home each night.”

The brothers shared a glance but before it was decided who should be the one to continue to talk some sense into Molly she interrupted.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Crossing the room she rummaged around in her huge bag, pulling out a thick battered brown envelope.

“Merry Christmas Sherlock.” She held it out to her sceptical friend.

“I finally typed up all the data on the effect fluorescent lighting has on stab wounds. I’m sending it off to the pathology journal next month.”

Sherlock’s face lit up as he scooped a smiling Molly up for a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. 

“I’m going to put this under my tree and pretend it came from Santa. Mycroft, see this? Good present.”

Mycroft just rolled his eyes in response.

“I should get going.” Molly slipped on her coat and hat, causing Mycroft to stand up on unsteady legs and nervously bid Molly fair well with a hesitant wave. 

She gave the brothers a huge grin and wished them both Merry Christmas before she headed out the door and down the stairs. 

As soon as the flat’s door closed behind Molly some primal siren call started and all Mycroft wanted was for Molly and her bump to be safely back in his sight. His mind filled with questions: Was she getting enough sleep? Has she gone to the dentist recently? Is she sleeping on her side? Was she taking her vitamins?

His steadiness returned, Mycroft was standing by the window before Molly made it out the front door. He watched her look both ways then cross the street. It was clear by her gait the smile was still on her face as she made her way down Baker Street.

“Where is this hotline located?” asked Mycroft without moving his eyes from Molly. 

“It’s on Chiltern Street.” Sherlock had joined his brother at the window standing just behind his left shoulder also watching Molly.

Mycroft hummed what sounded like disapproval.

“I’ve checked it out. The hotline is run by Meena’s boyfriend. The restaurant next door keeps them stocked with food and drinks.”

Molly was now well out of sight but neither brother moved.

“And the taxi?”

“Organised by yours truly.”

Mycroft gave Sherlock a surprised look with a sideways glance. 

“Again, I am its ACTUAL uncle.”

“When will Molly be finished with this drudgery?”

The answer, “She’s doing the overnight shift.” made Mycroft visibly tense. “Tomorrow morning the staff has Christmas Breakfast then she will go home to bed. My guess is she will resurface at about 5 pm or 6 pm tomorrow night.”

Turning away from the window, Mycroft was silent as his eyes darted around the room, giving away his disjointed thoughts as he buttoned his top button and re-adjusted his tie. Collecting his coat from the couch and putting it on he gestured to the bag of cheese sitting on the coffee table. 

“You will see to this?”

Sherlock replied with a dramatic eye roll as his brother made his way quickly down the stairs.

Turning back to the window with a mischievous smirk on his face Sherlock whispered, “Merry Christmas brother mine” as Mycroft climbed into the back of his waiting car. 

He heard light footsteps on the stairs and the door open before he turned around. 

“Oh, Sherlock did you get the cheese I asked for?” 

“Yes, of course, Mrs Hudson. We will have a magnificent cheese board for Christmas.” With a smile on his face, Sherlock picked up the bag and handed it to his landlady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge big thank you goes to obotligtnyfiken for the beta!
> 
> I'm off to work on Chapter 11.
> 
> Enjoy!


	11. Christmas Day

Molly stood indecisively in front of her fridge ignoring the open door warning as the festive sounds of late Christmas Day telly wafted in from the living room. She let out a frustrated sigh. Although Mrs. Hudson had made sure it held all of the traditional English Christmas staples, none of it was even remotely appealing.

The buzzing of her phone drew Molly’s attention. Glancing at the small screen, it was not a complete surprise to see “Mycroft” on the caller ID.

"Hi, Mycroft.”

"Hello. Molly."

“Happy Christmas. Are you feeling better?” Closing the door to the fridge Molly padded into her living room and took a seat on her couch.

“Yes thank you. But more importantly Molly, how are you?”

"I'm fine. Why?” With a gentle confused smile on her face, Molly rubbed her hand over her bump.

“Seeing you yesterday made it violently apparent I have been rather absent these past 16 weeks."

“Mycroft, I don’t expect anything from you. You made it clear you aren’t interested in the baby. I’m fine with the deal we made."

Molly could hear a sigh or a soft groan come from Mycroft. "Perhaps, but this isn’t how a gentleman should act. I have let you down. Apologies."

"There is no reason for me to be let down.”

There was a pause and Molly could almost hear the gears turning in Mycroft’s head.

“Let me make it up to you. Is there anything at all you need?”  His tone was quite sincere.

Molly gave a small chuckle.  “You should not ask a pregnant woman that question at 5:00 pm after a double shift at the hotline.”

“Why? What will she say?” The questions were filled with worry and in her mind’s eye, Mycroft’s brow had furrowed.

“It’s nothing – really-- just pregnancy cravings.”

“Pickles and ice cream? That sort of thing?”

“Kinda. I am dying for a Chinese and my local is closed for Christmas.”

“Leave it with me.” There was urgency in Mycroft’s voice. “Do you have a usual order?”

“I’m desperate. Anything that I can eat with chopsticks will do.”

“Give me 20 minutes.”

Mycroft hung up before Molly could protest.

//

Nineteen minutes later Molly heard a soft knock at her door. Opening it she found Mycroft standing in front of her with a very smug look on his face; a plastic bag of food hanging off his outstretched finger. Her eyes rolled up into her head as the enticing smells of the Chinese takeaway hit her nose.

“Oh that smells so good,” Molly moaned as she took the bag of food from Mycroft. Ripping open the bag of prawn crackers Molly popped one into her mouth as she headed back to the sofa and Dr. Who. With her attention focused on discovering what delightful oriental surprises lay in the bag, Molly didn’t notice Mycroft had hung up his coat and was now standing over her with a pleased look on his face.

“I trust everything is to your liking. No shellfish obviously.”

“Ohhhh it is just perfect,” Molly purred as she pulled the plastic rectangles out of the bag one by one, removing the lids and laying containers of food on the coffee table in front of her.

“I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of ordering enough for two.”

Molly’s mouth was full of her third prawn cracker, “Sorry! Where are my manners? Of course. Please, sit. Let me get you a plate.”

Mycroft shook his head and took a seat next to her.  Taking a pair of chopsticks and one of the plastic containers Mycroft smiled, “Don’t worry about the plate. I’ll manage. Besides, Dr. Who is about to start.”

//

Happily full of takeaway Molly curled up on the couch and glanced over at Mycroft. He was relaxing on the other end of the couch, his eyes were glued to the telly, the fingertips of his right hand gently tapping his leg in time to the music on Strictly Come Dancing.

Molly’s gaze settled on Mycroft’s neck. Before she could stop herself, visions of Mycroft’s head dropping back in pleasure filled her mind’s eye-- her tongue softly licking the bit of his neck rubbed by his starched collars every day causing Mycroft to groan. “That was very good.”

Swallowing hard, Molly stared at Mycroft, “Um-- wha--?”

“Anton and Judy,” Mycroft motioned to the screen.

“Oh, yea-- of course. They did a good job.”

Hoping Mycroft’s deduction skills weren’t underpinned by a keen psychic ability Molly quickly pushed herself off the couch.  

Picking up a handful of containers she was careful not to look at Mycroft as she headed to the kitchen. Without hesitation, he quickly mirrored her actions.    

“Is there anything else you need this evening?” asked Mycroft with hands full of empty Chinese boxes.

There was a slight hesitation before Molly answered, “No.”

Mycroft had started rinsing the containers and was handing them to Molly as she stacked the dishwasher.

Rolling his eyes he asked in a mocking voice, “Do I need to pop out and get you chocolate ice cream on a smoked salmon bagel for dessert?”

“No. Thanks. I’m fine.” Molly smiled nervously as she put the containers in the dishwasher.

Mycroft took a deep breath, stood up straighter, squared his shoulders and looking directly at Molly asked, “Will I do?”

“I’m sorry. What do you mean?” Molly was shaking her head nervously, her eyes on the floor.

“You know exactly what I mean. I can hardly let you go out to a pub or nightclub in your condition can I. Forget the emotional entanglements and distress it might cause you –both if you find a willing partner or if you don’t. You could be putting yourself and the baby at risk from some STD. Allowing that is simply unacceptable. I shall repeat my offer, will I do?”

“What are you talking about?” Without looking at Mycroft Molly took a glass out of the cupboard and filled it from the tap.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “For heaven’s sake Molly, I am offering to have intercourse with you. That is what else you need tonight isn’t it?”

“Yea— but—no … You don’t really want to shag me.” Molly gave a forced laugh before she took a drink of water.

“Of course I don’t want to. But you crave the physical release that comes with an intimate act that given your sexuality requires the participation of a male of the species and as I have highlighted before – I do not feel it is appropriate at this juncture for you to go and find some random male to satisfy your needs so I am offering to do so myself.”

Pouring the rest of the water down the drain Molly put the glass in the dishwasher and turned to Mycroft who was looking quite calm and assured.

“No— this is ridiculous. We can’t. I can’t get involved with you. I’m going to have a baby, and even if it is yours, the deal was you don’t have to have anything to do with the baby or me and before you suggest it, I‘m not really a one-night-stand sort of a person.”

“Which is why you will be pleased to find out we have plenty of time.”

“What?”

“We have 24 more weeks before the birth.”

“So?”

“That is ample time.”

“Ample time for what?”

“To start, have, and end a relationship with me.”

“What does that mean?”

“The median length of my personal relationships is 17 weeks.”

“Mycroft—“

“Molly, despite my best efforts I will inadvertently do something which will cause you to end our entanglement well before the baby arrives.”

Molly sighed. “Come on Mycroft don’t be so negative.”

“I am being honest and realistic, this is the way my relationships work. The novelty is in this instance I even know who will take my place,” his eyes dropped to the bump before he looked up and held Molly’s gaze.

Slowly Mycroft reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.

Mycroft leaned over to Molly, his lips were so close to her ear Molly could feel his warm breath on her skin and smell the slight remains of his aftershave. “Just because it won’t last doesn’t mean it shouldn’t happen.” Mycroft had closed his eyes and had let his voice fill with want.

Molly let out a groan as her mouth hungrily found Mycroft’s. And in an instant, the pair were locked together. Given his cool demeanor, the urgency of his kiss was breathtaking. Molly felt lightheaded as a pair of strong arms encircled her, holding her up. His hand slipped under her shirt and finding a bit of bare skin let out a moan as the intensity of the kiss increased.

The ringing of Molly’s phone rang startled the pair and they flew apart as if burnt by the flames they had just kindled.

The small screen read “Sherlock”

“Hello?” Molly’s voice was shaky and hesitant.

“Yea. I’m fine. I was— the phone startled me that’s all.  Umm, I’ve had dinner. Uh. Sure. Yea. See you soon.”

Molly took the phone away from her ear and sighed, then gave a resigned shrug.

“He’s coming over?”

“Yea. He is. Sorry.”

“I shall be going. My brother, Christmas and I don’t mix.”

Mycroft remained leaning against the countertop breathing deeply.

“How did you know?” Molly reached out and stroked Mycroft’s cheek holding his gaze.

“Sitting on the couch. I recognized that look in your eyes from after Sherlock’s fall. Except now I know what it means.” Mycroft smiled as he pulled her into a gentle kiss.

Molly, feeling the rush of desire start again, pushed him away. “When will I see you again?”

“Whenever your schedule permits.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Absolutely my dear. Now, I must go before your next guest arrives.”


	12. Papa Bear is Tired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of this chapter takes place in Mycroft’s flat, which is very tiny and near his office. I my universe this flat is in Whitehall Court and is in addition the house Mycroft has in BBC Sherlock. 
> 
> The stuff in italics is a dream Mycroft is having while sleeping on the sofa in his office.

 

The text in the European Commission’s Report on the Export Taxation Regulation Updates for last fiscal year began to swim before Mycroft’s eyes.

He reached out for his coffee cup but found it empty. His shoulders dropped with disappointment.

Taking off his reading glasses he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, resigning himself to the inevitable.

He pushed himself back from his desk. Quickly shedding his jacket he stumbled to the couch in his office and lay down. Mycroft fell asleep instantly and began dreaming about how he had spent the recent New Year’s Eve.

_Standing in the kitchen of his flat near the office he let out a frustrated sigh._

_Infuriatingly, it had only been a week and the petit pathologist already had him wrapped around her little finger._

_Seeing her pregnant had dialed up his protective instincts into overdrive. Had he understood what was going to happen to him, he might have worked harder to not let their paths cross. Now he was no longer content with letting her surveillance be outsourced to the usual pair of CCTV monitoring, and a discrete security team. He was going to have to do as much of this himself as possible._

_The offer to enter into a relationship with her had seemed such a good idea at the time. He would be afforded easy access to her for the next handful of months without having to create scenarios to check on her. And the ending of it all had already been envisioned. He had been honest, his loyalty lay with Molly, not her baby so there would be an end date either when she went into labour or he messed up— whichever came first._

_His vision of their relationship, quick phone calls between urgent meetings, nightly texts inquiring about her day, scheduled meals and the rare pop-round to her office for decaf tea was based on rational thought and the virtue of not letting himself get carried away. Unfortunately, this was proving far harder than he had originally planned._

_The seemingly innocent question had been asked three days ago—after the fourth evening in a row of a takeaway followed by a snog._

_“Does this mean we will spend New Year's Eve together?” was asked when a pair of caramel coloured eyes flecked with green and gold looked up at him after the soft pink lips below them had caused time to move in mysterious ways; hours seemingly vanishing in a heartbeat._

_So in a state of confusion, wondering how in god’s name dawn could be breaking when they had just settled onto the couch after dinner to watch a bit of telly, he ignored the New Year’s Eve ritual that had been practiced consecutively for two decades.  A tumbler of exceptional Scotch, while flicking through his previous year’s diary and tucked up in bed by 10 pm, was forgotten in an instant. He had answered without hesitation,“Yes. Of course.”_

_Mycroft sighed again, this time louder hoping Molly would stop ignoring his frustration._

_“Sit down.”_

_“But—“ Molly turned away from the window and the stunning view of the London Eye to look at Mycroft across the tiny open plan flat.  
_

_Standing in the kitchen in front of the stove Mycroft stood his ground._

_“Now. On the couch. Feet up.”_

_With a humph, Molly flopped down onto the couch._

_“I’m pregnant, not sick.”_

_“Which means you can see just fine from the couch.”_

_Giving the pasta sauce a good stir Mycroft put a small bit on a spoon and walked the short distance to the couch and offered it to Molly._

“Needs a bit more salt.”

_Returning to the sauce he added salt before tasting it — she was right, much better now._

_“How long have you had this flat?”_

_“Nineteen years.”_

_“And this is the first time you have ever spent New Year’s Eve here?” asked Molly._

_“Yes,” replied Mycroft as he collected salad items from the fridge and set them near the cutting board. “I usually don’t stay in the city for New Year’s Eve.”_

_“Do you think we will have any fireworks tonight?”_

_“Of course from this vantage point, we have one of, if not the best, view in London,” Mycroft gestured to the window as the corner of Molly’s mouth went up in a smirk accompanied with a sparkle in her eyes that caused his groin to twitch._

_Oh._

_“You said your relationships last 17 weeks on average? I’m guessing a few women just gave up in the first couple weeks huh?” Seeing Molly on the cusp of giggling was the exact moment his chaste plan for the evening went out the window and the visions of what Molly was implying became impossible to keep out of his mind. It was also making cutting the salad hazardous._

_Somehow he managed to not sever a digit despite the twinge of jealousy he felt when Molly took a call from Greg._

_It was obvious from Molly’s side of the conversation that Greg was checking in to make sure she wasn’t alone tonight._

_The more small talk Molly made, the more Mycroft felt a nub of annoyance grow between his shoulder blades. Out of the blue, he had found himself walking over to the couch and kneeling down beside Molly silently nuzzling her neck ignoring her playfully batting at him. Quickly the phone call became untenable and Molly ended the call. He was astonished how he could find chasing another male away so exhilarating._

_“What has gotten into you?” laughed Molly_

_“Our favourite detective inspector should find his own date this evening.”_

_Molly gave him a pointed look, “I don't know what’s more shocking, you being jealous or you being so bold as to call me your date.”_

_His date. Of course, she was. The warm glow in his chest stayed through eating dinner and tidying away the dishes. Hours passed quickly._

_The pair were standing at the window looking out into the Thames and the London Eye when the sounds of Big Ben’s chimes filled the flat._

_“Happy New Year,” they murmured to each other on their way to a kiss._

_With Big Ben still pealing Mycroft broke off the kiss and retrieved a dining room chair which he placed in front of the window._

_“Are you really going to make me sit?”_

_“No. The chair is for me.” Mycroft turned the chair around, it’s back now facing the window._

_“Don’t you want to see the fireworks?”_

_“Oh, I will,” replied Mycroft with an impish grin as he drew her into a deep kiss and maneuvered the pair around until he was in front of the seat. Ensuring her legs were on either side of his, he sat down._

_“Hey,” Molly laughed, “what are you doing?”_

_“I thought you wanted fireworks?” he whispered._

_Pulling her down onto his lap, Mycroft moved his hips upwards at just the right moment causing Molly to gasp. He could feel her trembling with anticipation._

_Staring at Mycroft with utter shock in her eyes Molly searched his face looking for permission._

_“Of course you may,” he nodded._

_Mycroft heard the fireworks start behind him as Molly dropped her full weight onto his lap. Her head dropped back, a wanton moan coming from deep in her throat as her hips began to grind against his—_

“Sir?”

The curt request for him cut through his sleep, causing the dream to vanish. He let out an anguished sigh while pushing himself slowly into sitting to find Anthea with her hands on her hips giving him a dark look.  
  
“Yes?” he asked weakly, deeply hoping she didn’t need anything too urgent.

“The Prime Minister is on line 3.”

“Thank you Anthea,” rolling his neck, taking a deep breath then pushing himself off his couch Mycroft returned to his desk.

—

  
**The Next Day**

Greg, John, and Sherlock were in 221B Baker Street when they heard the front door close and heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. John frowned at Sherlock, “Are we expecting anyone who has a key?” He got up to look out the window, just in time to see Mycroft’s car turning the corner.

“Your brother’s car just left. But that doesn’t sound like him.”

The door unceremoniously banged open and in trudged Mycroft. The eldest Holmes scanned the room, clearly disappointed to find it contained humans, rolled his eyes and gave a deep resigned sigh.

“Jesus mate, what has happened to you?” Greg called from the doorway to the kitchen. He and the other men watched as Mycroft shrugged off his overcoat, crumpled onto the sofa, pulled off his shoes and lay down in one continuous motion. 

“Why are you here?” gruffed Mycroft. “You are meant to be on a case. No one disturb me for the next hour and a half.”

“The eight turned out to be a four. Finished before lunch. What is wrong with the couch in your office?” snapped Sherlock.

“Anthea has already caught me sleeping on my sofa twice this week. She’s not pleased.”

“Why should she care if you sleep on your couch?” asked John.

“Clearly she doesn’t agree with what he is doing instead of sleeping,” murmured Sherlock, fingers steepled under his chin.

“Careful Sherlock. I can still hear you even though my eyes are closed.”

Looking down into his teacup and trying to keep a grin from his face Greg asked as innocently as he could, “So Mycroft. How far along is Molly? Must be at least 17, 18 weeks gone by now.”

“20 weeks tomorrow.”

Hiding a grin Greg exchanged a knowing look with John before continuing.

“What’s it been Mycroft, Chinese? Indian? Thai?”

“Chinese,” answered Mycroft.

“For Mary, it was pork pies with mint chocolate chip ice cream – usually at the same time,” added John with a smile.

“Bet you won’t ever be able to eat a Chinese takeaway again without a grin on your face eh mate?” Greg was smirking and looking up at the ceiling, desperately trying not to look at John.  
  
“What’s going on?” Sherlock’s brow was furrowed as he looked between John and Greg.

Mycroft let out a small groan.

Swallowing his smile Greg began, “Sherlock. Seems your brother has been helping Molly with her cravings for the past two weeks—“

“Three weeks,” came the muffled correction from the couch “and I can assure you we both have remained fully clothed.”

“I bet that doesn’t make a blind bit of difference,” continued Greg with a chuckle.

“Indeed. At the moment a lustful glance in her general direction unravels her.”

“And now three weeks later you can’t remember when you last had a full night’s sleep, you have eaten your way through the whole takeaway menu, and you haven’t had friction burns like this since your secondary school girlfriend. God, I remember those days.” Greg had a far-off look in his eyes.

“Enough, all of you! Just let me sleep.” groaned Mycroft, rolling his eyes before he closed them.

“Look,” Greg with a cheeky grin on his face winked at John, “if you want to send in a reserve player to give yourself a break just say the word.”

Mycroft opened one eye and scowled at Greg. “No.” came the stern response.

“Don’t worry mate I was just kidding.” chuckled Greg.

Mycroft had closed his eyes again and instantly his breathing was slow and regular.

Pulling the blanket off John’s chair Greg walked over to the sofa.

“Come on you two. Let’s finish this discussion down at Speedy’s so we don’t disturb Papa Bear. He needs all the sleep he can get.” Greg gently covered the sleeping Mycroft up and the remaining three men left the flat. 

 


	13. Mycroft’s Office

Mycroft let out a disgruntled humph after a quick glance at his wristwatch confirmed the afternoon was dragging. Tossing the file he had been reading onto his desk, it landed on top of the other two folders he had read since lunch.

Exhaustion was nipping at the edge of his attention and he knew the only remedy would be a few minutes of shut-eye.

His eyes settled on his office couch, a full-size brown leather Chesterfield, pushed up against the wall. On any other day it would provide just the respite he needed — but not today. Currently it held, lying with arms folded across his chest looking like a corpse, his little brother.

“While this couch is perfectly adequate for short naps mine is far superior if deep REM sleep is required,” muttered Sherlock as if he could read Mycroft’s mind.

“The couch arrived five years ago. It’s too late to leave a review. I trust this means you will be leaving soon.”

Picking up the next file folder in the small stack on the right of his computer, Mycroft glanced yet again at his wristwatch before opening up the folder and frowning at the contents. 

“Given your visit to my flat yesterday and your anxiety finding me occupying your couch today, we need to talk.” A small smile settled on Sherlock’s face although his eyes remained closed.

“About what?” snapped Mycroft, his hackles instantly raised, ready to spar with his favourite opponent. “My being sleep deprived is hardly cause for an intervention.”

As soon as his eyes left the folder he could feel them being drawn to his watch— again.

_ Molly should have called 17 minutes ago. _

“I thought, brother dear, your plan was to retain a respectable distance in all of this.” Sherlock’s hands moved in large graceful circles above him to add emphasis to this point.

“And from what Detective Inspector Jeffrey and John explained to me at Speedy’s yesterday that certainly is no longer the case,” said Sherlock.  “You really could use a throw on this couch. Your office is a bit drafty.”

Suppressing the urge to pounce on his unsuspecting sibling, mainly for fear of the scolding Anthea would give the both of them, Mycroft, eyes narrowed, replied through gritted teeth, “I am keeping a reasonable distance.”

“Yea—no, you’re not,” countered Sherlock in his best snotty brother voice.

“I don’t need to take this from you.” Mycroft rubbed his face with his hands then slapped them on his knees adding an exclamation point. “Get out or I call security.”

Sherlock didn’t even flinch.

“You are afraid.”  The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Not afraid-- terrified. But if you are terrified why did you volunteer for this predicament?  I mean it’s not like this baby was accidentally conceived in the back of your car on the way home from an exhilarating COBRA meeting.”

The familiar hot red mist of anger filled Mycroft. The fact that Anthea was on the other side of his office door was immediately forgotten. Whatever punishment she could dole out would be happily endured while repeatedly replaying the sting of his fist connecting with a satisfying crack to his brother's jaw.

_ Ping _

The innocent sound of a text arriving pulled Mycroft back into reality and out of the fantasy where he pummelled Sherlock until Anthea and three members of security pulled them apart.

Swiftly removing the phone from his breast pocket Mycroft’s heartbeat quickened reading the message.

SMS: Test results fine!

_ Ping _

SMS: Still okay for dinner? I’m starving!

A wave of relief washed over Mycroft as he texted back to confirm dinner was still on.

“Respectful distance indeed,” murmured Sherlock who was now also looking at his phone.

Ignoring the comment Mycroft returned the phone to his pocket. “I now believe your actual motive in lazing around my office for the past hour and a half has nothing to do with my welfare and was, in fact, to be here when Molly texted me about the 20-week scan. All is well. Now leave.”

“I know. I am reading the results now,” said Sherlock with a distracted tone in his voice. It was clear by how Sherlock was holding the phone close to his face and slowly scrolling he was indeed reading something important.

“What results? I received a three-word text.”

“Molly sent me the results.”

“Why you? Why not me?”

“Uh, probably because you have said, on a number of occasions I might add, ‘It’s not my baby so I’m not interested’.”

“Give me that!” Mycroft pounced on Sherlock eliciting a muffled yelp from the younger Holmes as Sherlock’s phone was wrenched out of his hand.

“Give that back!” cried Sherlock as Mycroft lept off him and rushed to the corner of the room, holding an arm out for protection against his invading sibling.

“Stop shouting! Anthea will hear!” hissed Mycroft as he sped read through the report. His arm was braced against Sherlock’s chest, an effective and instinctive move, knowing his left arm was one and a half inches longer than either of Sherlock’s arms.  

_ Measurements in alignment with LMP … All organs present … Organs size in alignment with LMP … Due date unchanged _

Another lunge caused Mycroft to dodge to the left, while his thumb hit the last file. Instantly the small phone screen was filled with a grainy video of a foetus; its movements jerky and ethereal. Heart-pounding and gazing at the screen, Mycroft’s fight against Sherlock ended abruptly. He froze, suddenly unsteady on his feet.

Now easily plucking his phone out of his brother’s hand Sherlock flopped back on to the couch taking deep breaths to stop his heart racing. The tell-tale smell of adrenaline and sweat hung in the air.

Stumbling back to his chair Mycroft, elbows on his desk rested his head in his hands trying to remember how to breathe.

The buzz of the intercom added a punctuation to the ending of the scuffle like the bell in the boxing ring.

Mycroft hit the button, gritted his teeth and released a slow breath to bring his heat rate down.

“Sir?” The slight quiver in her tone gave away the anxiety and uncertainty Anthra was feeling on the other side of the office door. The brothers were expecting irritation -- not this -- and a mixture of dread and concern filled them instantly.

“Anthea? What is it?” As his finger hit the reply button his eyes locked with Sherlock’s. It was clear both sensed that something was wrong— very, very wrong.

“Sir,” The disembodied voice of Anthea replied slowly and very deliberately over the intercom. “Mrs. Holmes is here to see you.”

Sherlock moved quickly to sitting as if jerked with a cattle prod, tucking back in his shirt tail as he did all the while keeping eye contact with his brother.

“Did you know about this?” hissed Mycroft.

“Of course not. I hate you, not despise you.”

After taking two deep breaths Mycroft once again pressed the intercom button.

“Anthea, please show Mummy in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting — real life took over! Good news is I have a few chapters done and will post the next chapter in a week.


	14. Mummy - part 1

Molly suspected something was wrong the moment she walked into Mycroft’s office. 

Just 10 minutes before, she had thought it was a stroke of luck to arrive at the nondescript grey stone office building just as Walter, Mycroft’s driver, had also approached the side entrance. She accepted his offer to sign her in and escort her to Mycroft’s office — certainly Anthea would be pleased she didn’t have to come down and collect her.

Walter had opened the door to Mycroft’s office for her, nodding hello at Anthea then telling Molly he was delivering some paperwork to the office next door. He would be happy to drive them to dinner if she didn’t feel up to walking.  

With the stress of the scan gone Molly felt relaxed and in her mind's eye she envisioned slowly meandering to the little hole-in-the wall restaurant only a handful of streets away the pair frequented when Mycroft’s schedule allowed for an early dinner. 

“Thanks but right now I’m looking forward to a stroll.  I’m sure Mycroft will message you if we need you.” Molly smiled then turned her head towards Anthea.  

Instead of the warm smile Anthea usually had for her, the PA looked very unsettled with Molly’s sudden appearance. 

“Anthea? Are you okay?” With her doctor instincts kicking in Molly was scanning Anthea in search of the cause of her distress.

“Is Mycroft expecting you?” The words were ever so slightly hesitant. Anthea’s eyes flicked to Mycroft’s office door then quickly back to Molly.

Suddenly filled with self-doubt Molly stammered. “Oh— um— I texted about 30 minutes ago when I got out of my appointment. We had talked earlier about me meeting him here to go to dinner. He said it would be okay.”

“I’m so sorry Molly. There has been an unexpected addition to his schedule this afternoon-- perhaps it would be best--” A forced smile had appeared on Anthea’s face.

From inside Mycroft’s office came the unmistakable sound of a woman laughing.

_ Oh. _

Molly’s cheeks burned with embarrassment at suddenly feeling very unwelcome. The words of warning Mycroft had spoken weeks ago drowned out the animated conversation occurring in Mycroft’s office. 

_ “Molly, despite my best efforts I will inadvertently do something which will cause you to end our entanglement well before the baby arrives.” _

Feeling her mood deflate like a punctured balloon Molly swallowed hard. There had never been any plans for the future between them — in fact there was no “them” at all. 

“Yes-- yes of course,” she stammered. Fumbling in her bag she pulled out a large white envelope. “Just tell him I dropped off--”

“Anthea dear could you please--” Mycroft’s office door opened and a woman strode confidently towards Anthea’s desk.

Molly froze on the spot staring at the woman who- with her round face, white hair, tunic top and sensible shoes- was hardly the femme fatale she had only seconds before envisioned draped across Mycroft’s desk.

“Oh! I do apologize. You aren’t the special envoy from somewhere are you dear?”

It took a moment for Molly to realize this matronly woman was speaking to her.

“Um, no. No I’m not.”

“I’m Mrs Holmes, and you are?” A hand was extended and Molly took it instinctively.

An ashen faced Mycroft quickly appeared from his office, his eyes darting over the scene, clearly desperately trying to read this unexpected situation.

“Mummy, that is quite enough,” snapped Mycroft now standing behind the woman. “Come sit back down while Anthea reserves us a table.”

“Stop it Mycie. I’m just saying hello to your friend.”

“What makes you think she is my friend?”

Mrs Holmes rolled her eyes in a way that was so classically Mycroft that Molly had to work hard not to giggle.

“It is obvious Mycie.” The woman took a deep breath as if she had spent decades dealing with these sorts of questions. “Anthea is still sitting down. If this woman was not familiar to her she would have been standing up and come around her desk for an appropriate greeting.  She--” Mrs Holmes turned to Molly and raised her eyebrows in a question.

“Molly.”

“Hello Molly how lovely to meet you. Molly, has arrived at your office late in the day. This is the perfect time to arrive on the off chance you are free for either an extended chat or an early supper. It’s what friends do.”

Molly glanced to Mycroft’s office door and was surprised to see Sherlock appear from inside. Casually he positioned himself up against the door-jam, arms crossed, clearly interested in watching the spectacle. Without a word he simply nodded his head in appreciation at his mother’s deduction while Mycroft stood nearby, his hands now balled into fists, his cheeks mottled with suppressed anger.

“Fine Mummy. You win. You finally met a friend of mine. Now please come back into my office.” It was clear by the tone of his voice Mycroft was extremely uncomfortable with what was going on.

Mrs Holmes’s attention remained completely focused on Molly, and ignored Mycroft's request completely.

“Molly, are you free for dinner tonight?”

Taking a slow breath Molly’s eyes flicked to Mycroft who was glaring at the back of his mother’s head.

“I’m not sure anymore,” she responded hesitantly. 

“Mother,” hissed Mycroft. “Stop this instant.”

Mrs Holmes paid not the slightest bit of attention to her older son.

“Anthea please make reservations for three at that lovely little Italian near Harrods. I know I usually do French but I don’t want to spend the whole evening listening to my oldest son whinge about me putting my grandchild at risk due to the all of the unpasteurised cheeses. Thank you dear.”

The silence in the room was deafening.


	15. Mummy II

“Wow,” whispered Molly “How did you--”

“Don’t encourage her,” came in unison from the Holmes boys.

A warm smile settled onto Mrs Holmes face. “It was quite easy dear. As I have already said, I knew you were Mycroft’s friend by how Anthea was acting. Despite the camouflage of your oversized jumper you are clearly pregnant and in your hand is a white unaddressed A4 envelope.”

Molly’s gaze dropped to the envelope she still held in her hands.

“Something very important is in the envelope— if it wasn’t important there would be no envelope or it could have been sent through the post. Yet here you are,” smiled Mrs Holmes. She continued, “The way you are holding the envelope confirms there is a DVD inside causing the bottom to be heavy. A young pregnant woman, who is delivering an unaddressed envelope containing a DVD has just been to an important scan— which would make your 20 weeks pregnant— give or take a couple of days of course.”

Mrs Holmes, clearly expecting no protest, looked around the small gathering confidently.While Molly nodded her head in agreement, her eyes settled on Mycroft. His arms were crossed and he was staring at the floor.She could see the tips of his ears were bright red.

“But why Mycroft? The father could be anyone,” asked Molly with a bright smile, hoping to help Mycroft little bit.

“Oh no, dear. You have no wedding ring and not even a hint of one being there before you became pregnant. And most importantly you were delivering the scan results to my son at his office. Scan results are only ever delivered to the father.”

“The uncle gets an email,” whispered Sherlock.

“What?” Mrs Holmes quickly turned to look at her sons.

“Nothing mummy,” replied Sherlock sheepishly. 

“Mother,” taking a deep breath Mycroft leveled his gaze on his Mother. “It is true you have discovered a private matter between Molly and myself. I did provide the required genetic material for this child to be conceived, but I will not be its father. It is Molly’s baby and will have little interaction with me.”

“How extraordinary!” Mrs Holmes’ face lit up as she clapped her hands together in front of her face. “That is just what your father said to me when I told him I was expecting you.”

Once again Mycroft grew pale and this time a small nervous giggle did escape from Molly.

“In fact he spent most of my pregnancy calling himself a sperm donor. Back then no one had a clue what he was talking about,” Mrs Holmes turned to Molly, “Sigur just ignored my pregnancy completely.”

“He would disappear for weeks at a time on business just as he had always done. It wasn’t really a surprise. From the moment we meet, he had told me over and over again he didn’t want to be a father. The only reason we ended up with Mycroft was that extra gin and tonic Sigur had when his cricket team won the parish cup. He was in rather good spirits that evening!” laughed Mrs Holmes.

“Ah,brother dear, unwanted and conceived only because father had had too much to drink. Any other secrets you want to share Mother?” sniggered Sherlock clearly enjoying himself.

Mycroft glared at Sherlock. 

“But— what happened? Mycroft isn’t an only child—- more gin?” asked Molly as she tried to lighten the mood.

“Oh no — no more gin was required. When I knew Mycroft’s arrival was eminent I sent a telegram to Sigur begging him to come home. While I knew he wasn’t keen on being a father I knew he truly loved me and would be desperately upset if he wasn’t at least somewhere in the vicinity when I gave birth.”

“You needn't have worried. Father is always on time for everything,” stated Sherlock proudly.

“Except for this time,” Mrs Holmes announced. “The whole thing was a complete and utter shambles. I ended up giving birth at home, having completely misjudged my contractions and the speed things would happen. Sigur, who in fairness did his best when he received my summons, arrived two hours after Mycroft made his entrance into the world.

“Having been fed, bathed and dressed, the maternity nurse was just about to put Mycroft in the nursery so I could get some rest when my dear husband finally arrived. I guilted him into having a quick cuddle with this little one.” Mrs Holmes reached over to smooth Mycroft’s hair like he was still a child, causing him to grimace and flinch at the touch. “I told him he owed it to me for not being at least in the house while I gave birth.”

Mrs Holmes beamed at Mycroft, “When the maternity nurse placed this little one in his father’s arms, he looked up, gave a big yawn and promptly fell asleep. His father held him for hours. I told him he was spoiling the child but he would hear none of it.It was Mycroft that turned my husband into a father.”

There were tears in Molly’s eyes. “What a lovely story,” she sniffed. “I don’t know why I’m crying.” Instantly Mycroft was by her side holding out his hanky to her.

“Because you are pregnant and my mother is talking too much.” Mycroft’s tone was soft but the look he directed at his mother when he spoke was hard.

Mother and son locked eyes as Mrs Holmes spoke, “I hope for your sake you are having a girl. Sons are such hard work.”

Taking a deep breath a smile appeared on Mrs Holmes face again. “Come now Mycroft, let’s get Molly to dinner. I am sure she is famished and would love to get off her feet. I’ll get my things.” She bustled past her sons back into Mycroft’s office.

The feeling of Mycroft taking both her hands in his caused Molly’s heart to flutter. This display of affection in front of both Sherlock and Anthea felt monumental. Her eyes looked up into his.

“I’m sorry our dinner plans have been hijacked. We don’t have to go with her.”

“She’s your mother Mycroft and—,” Molly sighed as she looked down at the baby bump. “It will be okay.”

“That is quite unlikely, but at this point your options are limited. Godspeed.” replied Sherlock as he shared a pensive look with Anthea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Apologies for any errors. I’m busy watching the BBC and the chaos in Westminister. Enjoy!


End file.
